


cherry wine

by ameliafuckingshepherd



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Depression, Eating Disorders, Falling In Love, Heavy Angst, Implied Relationships, Not A Fix-It, Not Canon Compliant, Not Happy, Out of Character, Pining Aaron Hotchner, Sad, Sad Ending, Self-Harm, Sex, this is honestly miserable and you will be sad reading it but read it anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22271836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliafuckingshepherd/pseuds/ameliafuckingshepherd
Summary: they happened in the wrong place, at the wrong time. At least, that’s what he tells himself, because if he admits this is all because ofhim, he’s afraid he might not be able to go on.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Emily Prentiss
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	cherry wine

**Author's Note:**

> this has a very abrupt ending. I'm sorry for that. much of this is kind ofbetween the lines, still living in my head, so i hope the connotations are obvious enough. like the general theme of this story, many things go unsaid. I have written this (10k words in), deleted it, and started over (this post), so I really just wanted to be done. It’s supposed to take place over a couple of years. Think of each paragraph break as a few months.

Hotch’s hand ghosts across her cheek, skin slightly green and cold to the touch. A million tubes stuck out of her mouth, her nose, wires sprouted from her hospital gown, IV tubes taped to her arm. If he didn’t know better, he might think she’s dead. 

Emily Prentiss, perhaps his most loyal agent, had almost been killed. Because of him. She was willing to die for him, for Jack,

She didn’t need surgery, thank god. Last time she went into an operating room, she didn’t come out. Even though she wasn’t really dead, and Hotch knew that, she might as well have been. Her absence opened a pit in himself, greater than the one left in the wake of Hayley’s death. But the past is in the past, and Emily lies before him. Alive.

Mostly.

He could kick himself. It wasn’t Emily who reached out while he and Jack were in witsec. It wasn’t Emily who put anyone’s lives in danger. It was Hotch. 

It’s always Hotch.

He is poison to everyone he loves, and this is proof. 

“Hotch, you don’t have to do this. I’m fine,” Emily says, but she’s smiling. 

“Yes, I do,” Aaron mutters, helping her out of the car.

“Hey. look at me.” Hotch refuses to meet her eyes. Her hand brushes his cheek and it's so warm in the freezing DC air that he leans into it. “This was not your fault.” 

Aaron offers her a small, bitter, smile and hands her coat over. “I should go.”

 _I don’t want you to._ “Yeah. Get home to Jack.” 

Her hand, which remains on his cheek, trails down to his chest. Aaron’s heart flutters in a childlike way. She rises on the balls of her feet, wraps her arms around his neck. In lieu of her usual perfume, her hair reeks of hospital antiseptic. He closes his eyes and leans into her more. 

They stay like that for a while.

The next case takes them to Los Angeles. While the others argue over who is stuck sharing a room with whom, a silent agreement passes between Emily and Aaron, and they slip into their suite. She dumps her bag on one of the beds and collapses next to it.

Her head pulses and throbs. She needs a cigarette; she isn't proud of falling back into her smoking habits. But life is short. And sometimes it makes the difference between a panic attack and nightmare ridden existence and a manageable one. 

Her hand drifts to her face and pinches the bridge of her nose. Lights hurt, and noise too.

“Are you alright?”

Hotch stands at the foot of her bed. 

“Yeah, just tired.”

“Good,” he says, but looks at her almost as if he’s trying to read her mind. “Get some sleep, tomorrow is going to be hard.”

He wakes in the middle of the night and joins Emily on the balcony.

“Hey.” he slides the door open. It squeaks.

She jumps, hand flying to her heart. 

“God, Hotch, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” he says, voice gravelly with sleep. A cigarette burns in an ashtray on the railing. Emily picks it up and takes a drag. She blows the smoke out in a cloud that drifts into the night. 

“It’s okay.”

They stand in silence for a few minutes before he speaks again. “You smoke?”

Emily laughs. She tips her head back as if she can see the stars hidden by the Los Angeles smog. “Since I was sixteen.”

“It’s not in your file.”

“There are some things I’d rather the bureau didn’t know.”

He understands that. When your entire life is tucked in a file cabinet and picked through with a fine-tooth comb, you hold on to your few secrets. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“I know.”

The whole setting of the conversation feels strange. He’s never seen Emily like this before. Maybe, he thinks, this is the real her. Not the image she puts on for others. She’s like a black hole, drawing everything and everyone near her in. And it’s more than years of CIA cemented charisma. She stands out.

It’s hot out, at least eighty degrees. A sheen of sweat makes her skin glow. She’s wearing pajama shorts and a camisole. Briefly, he considers that it might be inappropriate for him, her SAC, to see her in such minimal dress, but he doesn’t care. She doesn’t seem to, either. If Aaron didn’t know better, it might seem like she is trying to provoke him. Her back arches as she leans her arms on the balcony, her chest pushing forward. 

“You seem different, Prentiss.”

Emily taps her cigarette out and turns toward him, brown eyes meeting browner ones. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“talk to me.”

“Will you talk to me?” Aaron stays silent, and Emily slips past him. With a clap on the shoulder, she says “I trust you, Aaron. But you’ve got to trust me, too.”

It’s late when Aaron’s head dips and his eyes flutter shut. He falls asleep in his office after another long, late, night. Across the city, Emily eats a bowl of cereal and throws it back up. Her stomach rejects the food she consumes now, angered at any suggestion of self-preservation. She has survived when she undoubtedly should not have. It is unnatural. 

Aaron sleeps through the night. Across the city, Emily tosses and turns, plagued by nightmares of the past. 

“Aaron Hotchner.”

No badge number. No special title. Just a name. The emergency room nurse doesn’t acknowledge him. 

“No one asked for my name when I got here. It’s Aaron Hotchner.” 

The nurse still ignores him in favor of the paperwork, studiously marking down a chart. 

“That’s H-o-t-c-h-n-e-r.” 

She sighs heavily and sets down the chart. “Sure it is. Look, we’re pretty jammed up here, so the doctor is gonna be a while. Keep pressure on that, ‘kay?” 

Hotch nods. When he but a blade to his wrist an hour go, he hadn’t meant to go so deep. It was a new and strange feeling, to hurt himself. Adrenaline had overwhelmed him. Five minutes later, he recognized the symptoms of shock, and with the buckets of blood covering every surface he touched, he took a cab to the hospital. And here is is.

“How long will the doctor be? Because I have a so-“

“I don’t know sir. Can I call someone for you?” 

Hotch feels bad. The nurse is obviously stressed. It’s midnight on a Saturday, and no one likes the graveyard shift. 

“No, I can do it. I’m sorry.” 

The nurse offers him a begrudging smile. “That's alright, sweetie.” 

She leaves, and Aaron presses speed dial on his phone.

She picks up after two rings. “Is there a case?” 

On the other end of the line, he hears music and talk, and the faint sound of glasses clinking. 

“Tell me you can keep a secret, Prentiss.” 

Emily drives like a bat out of hell. Aaron had been unforgivably vague on the phone. _No, we don’t have a case. Come to the hospital._ Is he hurt? Is it one of their friends? Is it her mother? Is it Jack? Jessica? 

Her heart speeds up as her car does.

When she hurls herself through the sliding glass doors of the emergency room, she spots him in the second bed; they meet eyes. She practically runs to him. God, all she wants to do is touch him, run her hands through his hair, kiss his cheek and tell him everything will be okay. But she's Prentiss, and he's Hotch. Prentiss and Hotch aren’t like that.

“Hotch, you scared me half to death!”

“Sorry.” 

She looks him over with a critical gaze. He’s covered in blood. A doctor (young, early twenties, maybe. Emily almost asks for someone older) is sewing three harsh cuts on Aaron’s arm shut.

“What happened?” 

“It was an accident,” he says, his voice rough. Emily doesn’t believe him.

She sits on the edge of the bed. “I came as fast as I could, but I was out across town.”

“I’m sorry I interrupted.” He wasn’t. He looks her over, too. Her cocktail dress is red. Her heels are black. The outfit brings out just the right colors in her hair and lips. She’s beautiful. Not like that’s the thought at the forefront of his mind. 

“It was bad. I’m glad I had a reason to get out of there.” 

She rests her head on the wall behind them and tells him about the guy her friend set her up with. He squeezes her hand when the needle is pulled tight. She tells him not to watch between the horror story of her most recent date.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. 

A bandage is slapped over his arm. He signs discharge papers and Emily pushes him out in a wheelchair. Reversing their natural positions, she drives while Aaron assumes the role of passenger. They’re silent when they get to Emily’s apartment. She hands him a towel. He strips to his boxers and gives her his clothes to wash. Like so many things, it goes unspoken.

He wakes late the next morning on Emily’s couch. She’s perched on an armchair a few feet away scrolling through her phone.

“Em?” He sounds like shit.

She looks up and smiles. “Hey, you’re awake.”

He rubs a hand across his face and sits upright. Emily is watching him closely. He asks how she’s slept because he feels almost paralyzingly guilty and the room is almost paralyzingly silent. She says, “I slept pretty good,” but she’s lying. She’s exhausted.

“Do we have a case?”

She grimaces. “Wheels up in an hour.”

Emily tries to ignore the furious rumbling of her stomach. She’s so, desperately hungry. 

But she just can’t. 

Something will reach her mouth, but before she can even swallow, she’s rushing to the bathroom to heave it back up.

Her chest burns. The room spins when she stands up. Water is downed like there’s no tomorrow. She smokes a pack a day. 

Emily is the last to get off the plane when they land. She stands and the world swims. 

Dave steadies her wavering body. “You okay?”

Emily nods. Of course she’s okay. She’s always okay.

Today is no exception. 

Aaron watches Emily from the window of his hotel room. Dave is passed out in one of the beds, but Aaron can’t sleep.

Emily takes off her robe and tosses it on the concrete by the pool. He thinks his cheeks might be bright red if it weren’t for the cover of night because she’s...perfect. Like she’s been hewn from marble, her skin seems to glow in the moonlight. He notes that she’s just in her underwear. She must not have brought a bathing suit. 

Not that Aaron is complaining. The bralette is lace. Maybe sheer. He can’t tell. Her panties match. His legs grow tired as she swims around the pool. At half-past midnight, she boosts herself onto the diving board, water dripping, hair slicked back, and smokes a cigarette. If he opened the window, he could smell the chlorine and the smoke and maybe, if he’s lucky, her cedar jasmine perfume. 

Late the next night, Aaron finds his way to Emily. Tara decides to make a well-timed coffee run. The door clicks shut, and it is not Hotch and Prentiss, but Emily and Aaron. And the air feels electric. 

When Aaron kisses Emily, his body feels like it’s on fire. It feels like going down the highest rollercoaster in the world, terrifying, thrilling, pure adrenaline. Her hands are on his body and his hands are on hers, drifting from hips to hair to everywhere else. She shoves him on the bed and straddles him, pupils blown and lips red when the pulls away. 

“Em,” he croaks. “We shouldn’t-”

She presses her lips to his, and the message is clear: _this is what I need_.

What is he supposed to do? Push away the woman he’s loved since he met her? Tell her that _no, I’m your boss, this is an unbelievably bad idea, please leave_? How does he say no to this?

He should say no.

When her mouth is on his again, he can’t bring himself to pull away.

She locks the door to his office and climbs on his lap. 

“Prentiss, we shouldn’t do this here.”

“You’re right,” She agrees. Her shirt is already off. 

She’s pushed against the wall of the evidence lockup in rural Mississippi when he leans close and says, “We need to stop doing this at work.”

“I know.” But her hand is trailing down his chest, and the door is closed, and _god_ he can’t resist her.

It’s Emily, this time, who speaks up. His head is between her legs in the back of the car when she gasps, “We’ll get caught.”

“I don’t care.”

Her legs are wrapped around him in the elevator to the bullpen. “This is wrong,” He groans.

She pulls him closer and breathes, “Nothing has ever felt more right.”

Emily thinks this is starting to get old. Another night, another call, another set of stitches. She drops him off at his apartment. She doesn’t bother to stick around, doesn’t feel much like sticking around for anything these days. It is well past midnight when she stumbles home from a bar, taking a man (who’s name she doesn’t know) with her. It isn’t like she and Aaron are dating, anyway. They are friends. Just friends.

Prentiss calls in late to work. Hotch’s cell goes to voicemail.

The next time they see each other is September first. It is not intentional or work-related when she bumps into him (literally, her coffee almost goes flying) on the street. Their apologies die in their throats, and all he can do is stare. Breathless.

At unspoken odds, they meet eyes. They are fighting a silent war.

So it is Aaron who puts his head down and pushes past her, not Hotch. It is Emily who feels this action like a slap to the face, not Prentiss. They just had to make it personal.

Emily bandages Aaron’s arm while he sits on the bed in a pool of moonlight. A graveyard-like silence surrounds them, one that is thick and loaded with words unsaid. 

“I’m sor-”

“Don’t,” she snaps.

Hangs his head. “Em…”

“It’s fine, sir.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

Emily tapes down the gauze and levels her gaze to his. “I’m sorry, Agent Hotchner. I should go.”

“You were the only person I could call,” he says softly. 

Emily wants to keep walking, she wants to leave him, leave this, and never come back. But his voice breaks, and she turns around. A tear falls from his cheek. She hasn’t seen him cry since Haley died. Her lower lip trembles. _A boy shouldn’t do this to me_.

She falls into his arms, chin on his shoulder, and stares out the window while he cries. Nothing has changed. 

“You look nice in red.”

“Thank you.”

“Let me.” He takes the necklace from her fumbling hands and clasps it around her neck.

“Thank you.”

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

Emily meets his eyes in the mirror, exasperated. “What do you want me to say, Aaron?”

It is a long time before he says, “I never meant for things to end up like this.”

She meets his eyes in the mirror, and she knows he understands: _What happened to us?_

She is a prison cell. Cold and distant. Her face is bare when she looks at him, now. It's been a long time since he's been allowed to read her. They're three feet apart. It feels like a thousand. 

"This needs to end," Emily says, and even though Aaron knew this was coming as soon as she asked to talk, his blood runs cold. 

He bites his lip and nods. "it's starting to affect our work."

It's a lie so obvious he's not sure why he even bothers. The excuse sits in front of them, waiting to be picked up and elaborated upon. It's not because of work. That much is clear. He thinks he sees her eyes glisten, but she turns away, and he can't tell anymore. 

Now they're just Prentiss and Hotch. He realizes that they stopped being Emily and Aaron a long time ago.

He stands still, rooted to the floor as his apartment door closes and Emily drives away. 

It's time to mourn the past. The future, too. What could have been.

At the end of the day, he’s just not that guy, and she’s not that girl.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, if you enjoyed please comment! if you want me to write smth please tell me your idea, i have zero inspiration right now.  
> love you all so much and as always head over to my other works xo, i'll be posting a similarly bittersweet/felling out of love marvel short (nat/steve because i dont torture myself enough) soon so if that's something you're interested in, keep an eye out :)


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